 CHAPTER VIII. Tom's first five or six weeks at St. Mars, like the course of true love in fable and history, did not run smooth. His troubles, some of which we have narrated, were not confined to the yard alone. They followed him into the classroom. Tom thought, like many other students, that he would pick up the class matter by easy studying, but on this point his professor did not agree with him. He must be confessed, too, that Tom was at times overbold in his manner of deporting himself in the classroom. On one occasion Mr. Middleton put himself to much trouble to explain a long and complicated sum in fractions. He went over the problem step by step in such a wise that no one, not absolutely feather brain, could fail of following the process. Mr. Middleton was the soul of earnestness in teaching, and so at the end of half an hour's explanation he was covered with chalk while beads of perspiration, it was by no means a warm day, stood out upon his brow. Now boys, he said, turning full upon the class, do you understand it all? The head of each and every boy nodded ascent. Suddenly a hand went up. It was Tom's. Well, play fair? Yes, sir, said Tom soberly. Mr. Middleton was puzzled. What do you mean play fair? I understand it, sir. Mr. Middleton smiled. There was a slight titter among the more thoughtless boys, yet somehow Tom felt that he was out of order. He was sensible in a dim way that Mr. Middleton's smile carried a reproof with it. But the words had been spoken and were beyond recall. A day or two later Mr. Middleton was hearing recitations. Alexander Jones was called upon to answer some questions on the geography of Vermont. Jones arose, one quivering bundle of nerves. His eyebrows twitching, his knees bending under him, his lips quivering, and his fingers in a fury of motion. He grew intensely pale and gave several gasps. Mr. Middleton, with a few encouraging words, repeated the question. It's a con-continent, gasped Jones. I'm afraid you didn't catch my question, said Mr. Middleton. Now don't be afraid. I'm sure you know it. Listen, what is the nature of the land? Is it rocky, or mountainous, or sandy, or what? Poor Jones gasped again, but gave no answer. Here, Tom, who knew nothing about the lesson, came bravely to the rescue. He was seated just behind Jones. It's mountainous, he whispered. It's mountainous, Jones stammered. Yes, said Mr. Middleton, as if expecting more. Go on, growled Tom, and tell him it's rocky. It's rocky, repeated Jones. But even this answer did not seem to satisfy Mr. Middleton. Tell him it's sandy, continued the prompter. It's sandy. But Mr. Middleton, for some unknown reason, failed to come to the rescue of a hapless boy. He still waited. Hang it, growled Tom, unwittingly speaking so loud as to be heard by the professor and the entire class. Tell him it's very mountainous, very rocky, and very sandy. It's very mountainous, very rocky, and very sandy, burded forth Jones. And as a burst of laughter saluted his remark, he sank back into his seat, miserably conscious that he had cut a very ridiculous figure. Play fair, after class, said Mr. Middleton, sententiously. I didn't do anything, exclaimed Tom, with virtuous indignation. The professor very wisely ignored this disclaimer and continued the recitation. In consequence, then, a bad conduct and faulty recitations, it was not an uncommon sight after class to see our little friend, book in hand, patrolling the yard, endeavoring to make up at the eleventh hour what he had failed in at the first. And so naturally enough, Tom came gradually to imbibe a disgust for study in classwork, which, in the course of three or four weeks, culminated in almost entire neglect of studies. Tom felt in his heart that he was acting wrong, but he was a thoughtless boy, and his sense of responsibility was but poorly developed. Yet he realized with growing unhappiness that, should he continue in his present courses, he would soon be at the foot of the class. Mr. Middleton, indeed, had no trouble in dividing the state of Tom's mind, but he resolved to wait till some favorable opportunity should present itself for turning the people from his ill-chosen path. The opportunity soon came. An incident in the yard brought it about. It was a gloomy morning and early autumn. Tom was straggling along moodily from the refectory towards the yard, many perceived lying upon the ground, two ready-made cigarettes, dropped probably by one of the senior students in the Russian shockable game of football. Slowly picking them up, he hurried to his yard and sought Harry quip. Tom was rather out of spirits on this morning. He was totally unprepared in lessons, and he looked forward with unpleasant feelings to the day's recitations. There was unhappiness awaiting him in the line of duty. He would seek happiness in the line of mischief. He found Harry without difficulty and drew him aside. Look here, Harry, and Tom produced the two cigarettes. What do you say to a smoke? Hello, what's up now, Harry exclaimed? On the road here you told me you didn't care about smoking, and I'd liked what you said first rate. Yes, but just for fun, pleaded Tom. Harry placed his hand affectionately on Tom's shoulder, and with his honest face and eyes beaming earnestness said, Tom, old fellow, I'm afraid you're going wrong. Just a little bit, you know. Of course there's nothing bad about smoking. But, well, I ain't no philosopher, but it's so anyhow. This speech was incoherent enough. Harry had endeavored to tell the truth and at the same time spare the feelings of his partner. But honest words are more than grammar and rhetoric, and long, long after the sympathetic face and kindly voice of Harry haunted Tom and helped him in the path of duty. But at the moment he was in no mood to be softened. He added an extinuation, You see, Harry, I've got to do something or I'll die. Come on and take a few puffs. Nixie responded, Harry, shaking his head and grinning, and I tell you what, Tom, don't you get in with the smokers on the slide. It doesn't pay. Seeing Harry's determination to behave well, Tom respected it, and forthwith sought in his stead an old and tried smoker, John Pitch. You're just the fellow I want to see, exclaimed John Pitch enthusiastically when Tom had made his proposition. You see the old church building? Come on over to the corner between the walls of the handball alley. It's a safe place now. Mr. Militon is taking his breakfast, and Mr. Fielin has to stay in the playroom, and I've got any amount of matches. Now, resumed Johnny a few seconds later, when they had nestled close together in the corner, unless you want to get caught, don't blow your smoke out ahead of you so that it can be seen. Every time you take a puff, turn your head round this way, and blow it here right through this chink into the old church. It's a great trick. I found it out myself. Tom gave audible appropriation to this advice, and proceeded to carry it out to the letter, and for some minutes the two smoked in silence. Isn't it immense, John at length inquired? Isn't it, though, answered Tom, repressing a cough? Say, resumed John a moment later, can you make the smoke come out of your nose? Oh, that's nothing, responded Tom, and he executed the required feat. You can't inhale, can you, pursued John? Of course I can if I want to, but I don't care much about it. Well, I'll tell you what you can't do. You can't talk with smoke inside of you, and then blow it out after you're through talking. Neither can you. I'll bet I can. Let's see you do it, then, exclaimed Tom with increasing animation. In answer to this, John gravely inhaled a mouthful of smoke. Then said, See, that's the way to do the thing, and blew it forth. Gracious, but that's immense. I want to learn that trick, too. Let's see you do it again. Both were now absorbed. Tom, cigarette in hand, intensely eyeing John, and John, cigarette in mouth, determined to heighten his disciple's admiration. John now took two or three vigorous puffs, then inhaled the triple installment. Just at this most interesting juncture, Tom's quick ear caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Cave, look out, he whispered, and as he spoke, he dropped his cigarette by his side and crushed it under his foot. But John was not so quick. His lung was still filled with smoke, and his cigarette was still in his hand, as Mr. Middleton, the terror of smokers, turned the corner. But the young rug was not without resource. He and his companion, as has been said, were nestled together, and the open pocket in Tom's sailor jacket was convenient to the hand in which John was holding the cigarette. There was no resisting the temptation. Deftly, quietly, he dropped the burning cigarette into the yawning pocket. Unconscious of this, Tom, with his eyes full upon Mr. Middleton, was inwardly congratulating himself upon his lucky escape. Not so John. Although free of the tell-tale cigarette, it could hardly be said that he was in a happy frame of mind. The smoke within him imperatively demanded an outlet, and there stood Mr. Middleton, confronting him with the evident intention of opening a conversation. Good morning, boys, the prefect began. Good morning, Mr. Middleton, answered Tom, who, aware of John's predicament, was resolved to do the talking for both. There is a strange smell about here, continued the prefect with a peculiar smile. Yes, sir, there is, returned Tom gravely. I wonder if there aren't some skunks in this old building some of the old fellows say there are. I hardly think it a skunk. But what's the matter with you, Johnny? Are you ill? The question was pertinent. John was now in a partial state of suffocation. His eyes were bulging out of his head. His mouth was closed tight, and his cheeks were puffed out, as though he were a cornet player executing a high and difficult note. It is superfluous to add, then, that John returned no answer. Tom made an awkward attempt to divert Mr. Middleton's attention. A number of boys had just issued from the playroom. Some were the most of it. Oh, Mr. Middleton, what's that crowd of boys outside the playroom up to? Looks as if there's going to be a fight or something. Johnny, you must tell me what ails you, and Mr. Middleton, regardless of Tom's eager remark, fixed his penetrating eyes on John. A moment of painful silence followed. One moment and the victim of a fixation could hold it no longer, a gasp and a choke, and out came the smoke. Hear me, you appear to be on fire inside, remarked the prefect. I guess you're pretty sick, Johnny, put in Tom, becoming bolder under stress of desperation. Anyhow, I hope it ain't catching. I've been sitting alongside of— He finished his interesting address with a shriek, a pain, as he suddenly jumped to his feet and clapped both hands to his bosom. Smoke was streaming from his pocket. It looks as if it was catching, remarked Mr. Middleton. You are on fire outside. With some rubbing and slapping accompanied by a round of hopping and wriggling, Tom saved his jacket pocket from other destruction. Then as he grew calmer, he threw a reproachful eye upon John. With a smile, the prefect walked away, leaving them to conjecture the nature and extent of their punishment. During six o'clock's studies that evening, Tom was summoned to the room of Mr. Middleton. Well, Tom began the prefect when the culprit had presented himself. How are you getting on? Tom became lost in the contemplation of his feet. Take a seat, continued Mr. Middleton, indicating a chair. I want to have a talk with you. Now, my boy, he resumed when Tom had seated himself. I have had a good chance to watch you in class and in the yard for some weeks, and I have come to the conclusion that you are a very stubborn boy. Isn't that so? Yes, sir, said Tom mildly. You don't seem to mind anything I tell you. Day after day, it's the same old story. Bad lessons, careless exercises, and then, when I call you to account, your manner shows that you have little or no intention of doing better. Do you deny that? No, sir, answered Tom, beginning to feel very uncomfortable and very wicked. And don't you think that a stubborn disposition is a bad thing for a little boy? Yes, sir. Well, I don't, said Mr. Middleton. You don't, exclaimed Tom in surprise. Not entirely. Columbus, Washington, St. Francis Xavier were, in a sense, stubborn men. Indeed, I think all truly great men must have a fair share of stubbornness in their composition. Tom's face betrayed no less astonishment than interest. Columbus, continued Mr. Middleton, by stubbornly clinging to one idea, in spite of rebuffs and disappointment, discovered a new world. Washington, in the face of most disheartening difficulties, difficulties from friends and from foes, held to his purpose and created a nation. If Columbus had not been stubborn, he would have given in, and America might have been undiscovered for years and years after his death. If Washington had been less stubborn, perhaps our country might have never achieved her freedom. Did you ever read the life of St. Francis Xavier? I don't read pious books very often, sir. Well, he was just such another man. Subranes could be. When he was a young student, nothing would satisfy him but to become a great philosopher. So he studied away, week after week, year after year, till he became one of the learned doctors of his age. Then when St. Ignatius converted him, he became just as stubborn in converting souls to God, as he had before been stubborn in acquiring philosophy. Nothing could divert him from his new work. Labor, pain, hunger, abandonment of home, and friends, all were bravely endured to this end, and Francis Xavier became the great apostle of modern times. Well, it seems to me, Mr. Middleton, that stubbornness were a good thing, it wouldn't make a boy act wrong. Oh, it may, answered Mr. Middleton with a smile. If it be misused, isn't Brad a good thing? Yes, sir. But it wouldn't be good if you were to pave the streets with it. Stubraness is good, too, but only when used the right way. Stubraness is merely the sign of a strong will, a strong determination. If you exert your stubborn strength, the will, to doing what is good, you are all the better and nobler for your stubbornness. But if you exert it for a bad purpose, then you are so much the worse. Then what a pity it is that boys misuse to go to gift of God. Why, my dear boy, I have known not a few college students who bent all their energies to getting off their lessons without being punished, and who with the same energy might have acquired such an education as would have reflected honor on themselves. And you, too, Tom, must guard against misapplying this energy, this determination, this perseverance, this stubbornness. You see, it has many names, two wrong purposes. It is a gift to you from God himself, and you must show your gratitude by using the gift of right. Do you remember when Green attacked you, how steadfastly you bore his blows till you fainted? I guess I do. You were determined not to give in. Now take your lessons the same way. Don't let trouble, weariness, memory, work scare you. Just hold on tight to your lessons. Never give in or yield to them. Make them yield to you. Then, indeed, you will see that your stubbornness is a gift of the good God. By the way, you intend making your first communion this year, don't you? Yes, sir. I am awfully anxious to make it. I am going on eleven, sir. Hear the boy's lips quivered, and he caught his breath. And, well, whenever I think of hold the communion, I think of my mama, sir. She died when I was only seven. But I remember how she was always speaking to me about my making a good first communion. While speaking these words, Tom repeatedly shifted from one foot to the other. This was his expression of strong emotion, and he had reason to be affected. For, as he spoke, the sweet, pure face of his departed mother came back vividly to his memory, and while her deep, dark, tender eyes kindled into love, her lips moved in the last prayer for the weeping child whom she strained in the dying class to her bosom, moved in a prayer that, Mary, the Virgin Mother, might guide the ways of her darling son. Then the strain relaxed, the sweet eyes closed, a shadow seemed to pass over the pallet face, and as he covered the stilled features with kisses, he knew that his mama was with God. Poor, motherless boy. Mr. Middleton was touched. From Tom's halting words and shifting a position, he had caught some glimpse of a little lad's heart. In general, said the prefect gently, a boy is a great loser if his mama dies before he grows up. The reason often is that he forgets, but you do not forget, Tom. Sometimes I do, Mr. Middleton. I've been forgetting a heap more than I ought to. Well, Tom, I have great confidence in you. Mr. Middleton said these words in a tone so impressive, so earnest, that Tom felt more and more humbled. I haven't done anything to deserve it, sir, but you will do much to deserve it, or I am sadly mistaken in you. Now I'm going to tell you a secret, Tom, but mind you keep it to yourself. Three weeks ago I received a letter from your father, in which he asked me to give him a report of you. Tom's cheeks lost their color. He said that you would give him much trouble at home, that you seem to be very thoughtless, even for your age, and that he doubted strongly about your fitness to make your first communion this year. Tom caught his breath, and he added that, unless I could assure him that you were giving perfect satisfaction, he would defer your first communion till you were twelve. The listener turned away his face and gazed through the open window. I answered your father's letter half an hour ago. Oh, I'm a goner, then. Tom's expression was really pathetic. Listen to what I've sent him. Dear Mr. Playfair, in regard to your son's conduct, it is too early in the year to say anything definite. But from the data already afforded me by what I have seen of him in the classroom and in the playground, I feel quite certain that he would develop into a thoroughly good and noble boy. You are sincerely in Christ, Francis Middleton, S.J. Tom's lips quivered and a softness came into his dark eyes. He made no attempt to speak. The firm, noble head, bowed low. He could have fallen at Mr. Middleton's feet. Now, Tom, I'm quite sure that I have not been deceived in you. Perhaps I was overharsh with you at first. No, you weren't. Hang it, verdant forth, Tom. If you'd kicked me once or twice, I'd feel better now." Mr. Middleton held out his hand. Tom caught it in the fervent grasp. Now, my boy, we will forget the past. Take a walk in the yard for a while and think over what I have said. Then make your resolutions carefully and ask the blessings of the sacred heart. Tom departed, carrying a new range of ideas in his little brain, up and down the yard he paced, buried in thought. The seed had fallen on good ground. Finally, going to the chapel, he knelt for a long time before the tabernacle and prayed with all the earnestness of his soul that he might turn over a new leaf. Nor was his prayer unheard. From that hour, Tom became a more faithful student, a more earnest Christian. It was twelve o'clock in the night when Harry Quiff was aroused from slumber by a hand which was shaking him in no gentle manner. On opening his eyes he discerned by the dim light of the dormitory lamp Tom playfair. What's the matter, Tom? I say, Harry, isn't Mr. Middleton a brick? Oh, go to bed, grout Harry, turning over and bearing his face in the pillow. Tom complied with the sensible advice and lay awake for full three minutes, building golden visions of the great day now assuredly near at hand. Ah, if he only knew what difficulties were to arise, and under what tragic circumstances he was to make his first communion, I am quite sure that he would have lain awake for at least six minutes. CHAPTER NINE In which Tom concludes that vinegar never catches flies. For the ensuing two or three weeks the current of events at college flowed on with scarcely a ripple. Every day Tom seemed to gain new friends. Indeed, with the exception of John Green, he had not a single enemy among his playmates. And even Green's enmity had grown less demonstrative. As the fit preparation for his first communion, Tom had resolved to put himself at peace with the whole world. He now regretted that he had made a laughing stock of Green on the occasion of their first meeting, and he was on the alert to do something towards closing the breach between them. A slight change in the routine of school life gave him the desired opportunity. Towards the end of October it was found necessary to make some repairs in the western corner of the small boy's dormitory. In consequence, 17 of the students occupying beds in that part were assigned temporary accommodations in the attic of the main building, a structure towering high above all its fellows. It was Wednesday afternoon when Mr. Middleton announced the names of those who were to change their sleeping quarters. Tom, Harry Quip, Alexander Jones, John Pitch, Green, and others, with whom our story has not to do, composed this privilege number. To add us to the privilege, he allowed the happy 17 to explore their improved dormitory immediately after class, and very quickly after class the brick building resounded to the tramp of multitude in his feet, scampering nimbly up the stairs, as though on a mission of life and death. Woop-la, cried Tom as he burst into the great room, seemed enribbed overhead with heavy means. It's like the attic of a haunted house, only bigger. Isn't it green? It's an immense place for fun, responded his companion. Look at all the corners and hiding places. We can play I spy here if we don't feel sleepy. Yes, ascended Tom, and at night he might climb out on the roof and count the stars. Did you ever count the stars, Johnny? Nah, did you? I tried it one night at home when I was lying in bed and couldn't sleep. I got as far as fifty-seven, and then I went off sound asleep. But there are lots more than fifty-seven. I guess there's over a trillion, said Green reflectively. Both felt that their remarks had fairly exhausted their astronomical researches. Come on, said Tom, let's get out on the roof. As he spoke he pointed towards the ladder which led up to a cupula, rising some seven or eight feet above the roof of the building. This cupula gave access to the roof by means of a small door, which opened at the side and was secured from within by a strong bolt. Followed by Tom, Green ran up the ladder, shot back the bolt, and made his way upon the roof. I'd like to live on a roof, said Tom tranquilly as he walked over to the eastern verge, and gazed down upon the yard below. Come back, you idiot, cried Green, and when he considered his most persuasive accents, he'll get dizzy and keel over. I'll bet I won't, answered Tom. Don't you think I've ever been on a roof before? This one isn't steep like ours, but it's a heap higher. I say, how'd you like to stand on top of that lightning rod? And Tom motioned with his index finger towards the tip of a rod, which rose above the cupula. Green ran over, cotholded the rod, and shook it. I wouldn't like it at all unless I wanted it to break my neck. It's loose. Well, you'll bet I can't pull it down. It isn't ours, Johnny. I'd just as soon pull it down as not, continued Green. Nevertheless, he relinquished his hold upon it and turned away. Tom had occasion to remember this episode subsequently, though at the moment both he and Green dismissed the subject so lightly. Some seven or eight others now found their way to the roof, and the conversation made up in great part of O's and O's had become quite general and very noisy, but Mr. Middleton appeared and sternly ordered all down. Tom and Green were the first to descend, followed by the others in Indian vial. The last to re-enter shut the door behind him, but neglected to bolt it. The omission passed unnoticed. I say, Mr. Middleton, observed Tom solemnly. I thought you didn't believe in slang. Indeed, I wouldn't advise people to use it in ordinary. Well, sir, you gave us a bad example. How? You told us to come off the roof, sir. And satisfied with his little joke, Tom was about to hurry away when he was arrested by Mr. Middleton's voice. Well, sir, you'll have to do penance for that joke, Tom. I want four or five willing boys to bring over pillows and bedding. The workman will attend to the beds and mattresses. You might get quip and donnell to help you. All right, sir, that'll be fun. As Tom spoke he saw an eager look upon Green's face. When I say, Mr. Middleton, he added, can't Johnny Green help us? He's willing. Of course, was a cordial answer accompanied by a kindly look at Johnny. Poor Green, there was a real wholesome blush upon his face, as he blurted forth some disjointed words of thanks. Well, commented Mr. Middleton to himself as the lads went patterning down the stairs. That play-fair has unconsciously taught me another lesson. I mustn't forget to notice the hard cases now and then. While I'm mistaken, Green will be in a better mood for a week. He's a good fellow, Green observed, as they were trotting across the yard. Isn't he, said Tom? And so are you, added Green, growing very red as he spoke. Tom laughed. He had succeeded. His only enemy was one over. Tom had brought a diary from home, having made a promise on receiving it to write something in it every day. That night at studies he opened it for the first time and made this his first entry. It happened to be the last also. October 30th. Since coming to college I have noticed that vinegar never catches flies. Today I am eleven years old. This year I am going to make my first communion. His name is Green. I don't believe there is anything near a trillion stars. CHAPTER X In which Tom gives Green a bit of advice, which, aided by a storm, is not without its effect. On the afternoon of the following day, Tom, Harry, and Alexander Jones were engaged in an earnest consultation. I don't think he'd allow it, said Harry. What do you think, Alec, asked Tom? I'd be afraid to ask, responded Alec. Well, he can't more than refuse, and I guess I can stand that. Guess, fellows, I'm going to ask. And without further ado, Tom walked over towards Mr. Middleton, who was acting his umpire in a game of handball between Donald and Kenan. Well, Tom said the pre-effect as he caught the anxious eye of our hero fixed upon him. What do you want? If you please, sir, I'd like permission to take a walk with Harry Quip and Alec Jones. Certainly, you were all on the good conduct list. You back half an hour before supper. And Mr. Middleton, can't crazy? That is, can't Johnny Green come along with us? He's not on the conduct list. You know the rule. Yes, sir, but he hasn't had a chance to go out since the first week of school. That's not a sufficient reason for his going out now. But Mr. Middleton, yesterday you told me you'd make it all right with me for carrying over the bedclothes and things. Let Green come along, and I can't ask for anything I'd like more. You know, sir, we haven't been friends up to yesterday. And Tom gazed at the pre-effect wistfully. Tom, answered Mr. Middleton, after a few moments of consideration. Please tell Green that I'm very glad to have an excuse for letting him out, and that I hope he'll have all the privileges of the conduct list next month. Thanks, Mr. Middleton. I know every word you said just then by heart, and I'll tell it to him exactly as you said it. And touching his cap, Tom hurried away. Say, Green, won't you take some candy? He inquired of that young gentleman whom he found engaged and furtively carving his name on a corner of a little boy's building. Green closed his knife very promptly and accepted the candy with silent enthusiasm. How would you like to take a walk, Green, with me and Quip and Jones? I like it well enough to walk with anybody, came the rough answer, but I'm not allowed outside this wretched yard. And Green went on to express his injured feelings in a manner too realistic for reproduction. You didn't swear about it anyhow, interrupted Tom. Then besides, Mr. Middleton has given you permission. Green opened his eyes. What? He gasped. Then Tom repeated Mr. Middleton's message. Just my luck observed Green gazing ruefully at the literacy of cut. If he sees those initials, I'll lose my conduct card again. I can't behave to save myself. Tom pulled out his own knife and forthwith began working upon Green's carving. There, he said presently, if anybody can make J.G. out of that now, he'll have to be pretty smart. Come on, Johnny, and we'll have a fine walk. Accordingly, the four were soon outside the college grounds, an event which Green celebrated by putting a huge quid of tobacco into his mouth. It was a gloomy afternoon. The morning hit open with a black mass of clouds low down upon the eastern horizon. With the progress of the day, they had been accumulating and spreading westward, growing thicker and blacker in their advance, till nearly half of the firmament was now veiled from the eye. That's an ugly sky, observed Harry. There was lots of wind in those clouds. At it, Tom, it looks as though we'd have a big storm tonight. So it does, assented Alec, who did little else in ordinary conversation beyond contributing the scriptural yay and nay. I ain't afraid of storms, said Green. There's nothing wonderful about that, commented Tom. What would you be afraid for? Some fellows get scared when they hear the thunder, explain Green, but I don't mind it one bit. I do, said Alec, when the thunder begins and I'm in bed, I always put my head under the blankets and pray. That's because you are cowered, said Green loftily. I don't fear going to bed in the dark nor nothing. In other words, remarked Quick, with the solemn roll of his big eyes, you aren't afraid of anything. Nah, I ain't afraid of nothing. You're not afraid to blow, that's sure, putting Tom in a matter of fact tune. All the same, Johnny, I'd rather think you'd be scared if you knew you had to die right off. I don't know about that, answered Green. I don't expect to go to heaven anyhow. You don't? Nah, I gave up trying to be good long ago. At least you might try to make the nine first Fridays that Father Nelson talked to us about in the chapel, suggested Tom. Green stared at him heavily. He said, you know, continued Tom, that there's a promise of grace to die well for any fellow that makes him. I hurt him, but once a month is too often for me. Just think, edit, Harry Quip. Tomorrow's the first Friday in November. Make a start, crazy. It wouldn't hurt you to try. I guess I'll not begin yet, answered Green, as he proceeded to rule cigarette. He would please Mr. Milton a heap, Tom observed. Yes, indeed, put in Alec. It would do to you any amount of good, added Tom. Come on, Johnny, you sneaked out of going to communion last time the boys went. You didn't stare. I had my eyes open, and I saw you dodging. It's my opinion that you've been dodging ever since you came back to college. Say, you didn't tell on me, did you? Not yet, answered Tom diplomatically. He had never entertained the idea of reporting Green to the authorities. And I won't mention it either. Now you go tomorrow, won't you? There was a short silence. Yes, answered Green at length, and speaking with an effort. I'll go. Making their way through the woods which girded the river, they presently arrived at the clearing upon the bank. Isn't it growing dark awful fast, exclaimed Harry? Just look at those clouds. They're beginning to move faster and faster, and they're coming out way too, cried Tom. Let's run home, suggested Green. Born on the wings of the storm, the dark masses in the east were advancing gloomily, rapidly, like a marshaled army. The wind which carried them on could be faintly heard, breaking upon the dread silence which had come over the scene round about them as the ticking of a watch at midnight upon a nerve-shattered invalid. Fascinated by the sweep of clouds, they stood, these little boys, with their eyes lifted toward the heavens. Ah! This exclamation, which seemed to break from all simultaneously, was evoked by a sudden change in the moving panorama. For as they stood gazing, they were dropped from the bosom of these clouds, thin, dark veils, reaching from earth to sky. What is that? cried Green. I don't know, I'm sure, answered Tom. I never saw anything like that in St. Louis. Maybe it's rain moving this way. Anyhow, the storm will be on us in a moment. Just look how it's rushing towards us. It's too late to start for the college. Where will we go to? And as I said about answering this question, the clouds came nearer and nearer. The whistling of the breeze that one moment before had seemed, but to emphasize the silence, had risen to an angry scream. The four lads, wavering in irresolute, not knowing whether they should go for shelter, presented a striking tabulate as they paused there in the open. Tom stood with his legs apart and firmly braced. His hands were clasped behind his back, and with his hat, tilled his toes to show a shock of thick black hair over his forehead, and his mouth pursed as though he were about to whistle, he raised his eyes in an unlinking gaze upon the angry clouds. Next to him was Alec, pale, silent, and with an Austrian look upon his fair face. He had put his arm through Tom's, and clung to our little friend as a drowning man to a plank. Tom was Alec's hero. Harry Crip was on the other side of Tom. The usual grin still lingering upon his merry face, and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Green, who stood in advance of these, had become intensely pale. His fingers were quivering, his breath came in gas, and he glanced over and over from sky to companions, from companions to sky. The first drops of rain began to patter about them, while the wind, keeping time with the movement of the rain, sent the trees before them bowing and swaying in a weird dance, all the more weird for the unnatural darkness that had fallen upon all nature. Hadn't we better run, asked Tom? Yes, said Green eagerly. Come on. I'm afraid, Tom, I can't run, said poor Alec. I feel weakened to see, and I'm so frightened. Harry and John go ahead, said Tom. I'll stay with Alec. No, you don't, Tom, said Crip. If you stay, I stay. Come on, Crip, implored Green. They can look out for themselves. Go on yourself, said Harry, speaking with some asperity. You can take care of yourself if you want to. But I don't want to be alone in this storm. Then stay here, came the curt answer. Hello, Oc, Crip of Voice. While you're smart boys for your age, you've chosen about the safest place around here. And John Donnell, out of breath with running, emerged from the woods and placed himself beside Green. We came near running away, said Tom. We thought we could run through the woods and find some house to stay in till the storm blew over, we're mighty glad to see you, John. It's lucky you stayed here. If the wind gets any worse, the woods will be a dangerous place, flying branches, enlightening, and whatnot. During this conversation, short as it was, rain and wind had grown worse. Ugg, what we drenched to the skin, said Tom. Well, hello, Oc, he added. Alec is sick. Alec had pillowed his face on Tom's wisdom, and before the exclamation was well out of Tom's mouth, the poor child fainted. Here, give me the boy, shouted Donnell. Shouting him now become necessary of the ordinary tone of conversation. I'll fix him in a trice. And John, as he spoke, took Alec in his arms, carried him to a soft bit of earth, and deposited him gently through open his collar. Hello, Oc, Green. What's the matter, called Tom? Attracted by the strange motions of the frightened boy. I can't stand here. I've got to run, came the answer. Donnell raised his face. Stay where you are, he said sternly. If you want to die young, run through those woods. As he ceased speaking, there came a dazzling flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a terrific clap of thunder. With a wild cry, Green dashed for the woods. Stop him, Tom, cried Donnell, jumping to his feet. Stop him, he's lost his wits. Donnell, the many yards in the rear of both, had set forward in hot pursuit. As for Tom, he scarcely needed Donnell's bidding. Green had not fairly made a start when Tom was at his heels. Terror, they say, lends speed, but poor Green seemed to be an exception to this, as too many other roles. He slipped several times, and once was within a little of losing his balance and falling to the earth. Indeed, it seemed as though Tom, who was running at his best, would catch him before he reached the woods. But as Green drew nearer the dangerous shelter, he regained something of his customary speed, and Tom, who had thus far gained upon him, began to lose his advantage. Donnell, meanwhile, was lessening the distance between himself and Tom at every step. At length, Green, in passing a tree that stood like a sentinel, guarding the main body of the woods, slipped again, and before he could well recover himself, Tom had come within five feet of him. Then, just as a thoroughly frantic boy broke into his regular speed, Tom sprang into the ear, alighted on Green's back, and bore him to the ground. And while they were still rolling upon the drenched earth, there was a sharp crack, like the report of a pistol discharged at one's ear, a strange, swishing sound, a crash as of many branches beating against each other, and twenty feet before them there came the crashing to the earth a giant oak. As it fell, a twig struck Tom in the face. In an instant, though dazed and bewildered, Tom had sprung to his feet. But Green rose only to his knees. He was quivering with fear, and beat his breast. Spare me, spare me, he cried, I'll go to confession this very night. Get up, will you, called John Donnell, his voice rising high above the noises of the elements, as he caught Green by the shoulders, and dragged him to his feet. If you don't move away from here, you'll not have a chance to make a confession. And without further words, John dragged him back into the open. Tom followed quietly. Even his face, it must be said, had paled a trifle. And there they stood motionless as statues, silent and awed for two or three minutes. There they stood, till in the swiftness of its might, the wind had flown by them, till the clouds had moved onto the western horizon, and left the sky above them perfectly clear, till, in fine, the storm had ceased with the suddenness befitting its violence. Well, it's over and all is well, said John Donnell. I guess we had better run for college, John, put in Tom, and change our things, or we'll get rheumatism or smallpox or something ugly. What's the matter with Green? Green pointed an equivering finger at the western sky. It is coming back, those clouds have stopped moving. I guess we can beat them, answered Tom. John, I'm awful glad you came. We'd have lost our heads if it hadn't been for you. How did you come to be around? I was hunting for snakes with Kenan, and we got separated. You can rely upon it that George is safe in college by this time. Now boys, for a run home. Are you all right, Alec? Yes, sir, said Alec, who had risen to his feet while the race between Green and John had been going on, but I'm afraid I can't run very fast. Here, put your arm through mine, said John. And your other arm through mine, added Tom, whose color had fully returned. In a very short time, indeed, they were changing their garments in the dormitory. Green uttered not a word till he was about to leave the room. Then he said, Tom, if you hadn't jumped on my back and pulled me over, I'd be dead now. Ugg. Yes, replied Tom, adjusting his tie with more than wanted precision. And if I hadn't tumbled over with you, I'd have been killed too. I was scared that time, I can tell you. But of course you weren't scared. Tom grand as he waited for an answer. Scared, I should think I was. Say, Tom, I was lying to you fellows about my not being afraid. You needn't tell us that, said Tom bluntly. But I'm going to change, see if I don't. And Green left the dormitory and went straight to the chapel, leaving Tom and Alec alone. Well, Alec began Tom, who, divine from the timid's lab face, that he wished to say something. Do you feel shaken? Oh, little Tom, did you hear what Green said just after the storm? What did he say? He said it was coming back. Oh, well, you know he was most scared of his wits. Tom, it is coming back. Nonsense. Well, I feel as though something were about to happen. Won't you please pray for me? And Alec caught Tom's hand and gazed into his countenance with a sweet pathos inexpressibly touching. A beautiful face it was that met our heroes, none the less beautiful for the modesty which nearly every minute of the day failed the eyes and sent the blood purpling the pale cheeks. Now, however, Alec's eyes were wide open and fixed, oh so appealingly upon Tom's. And Tom, as he returned the gaze, was impressed with something which he could not define, a witch brought home to him for the first time that he was in the presence of a boy of extraordinary holdiness and purity. Well, of course I'll pray for you if you want me to. What's up? Tomorrow, Tom, I finish making the nine first Fridays. Well, I don't see why you want any praying for. I need it bad. I've done a lot of things that I hadn't ought to. Yes, but you've done a lot of good, too. I was so glad, Tom, when you spoke up to Green. You know how to talk. That's what I've got a tongue for. But it was that falling tree that fetched him. He'll behave decently for a week, I reckon. Poor Alec looked as though he would say more, but words in courage failed him. He again caught his friend's hand, pressed it, then hurried from the dormitory with that indefinable expression which Tom had noticed before. Tom continued sitting on his bed for some moments longer. I didn't know that Alec Jones, he saw little quiet as he rose. I thought he was a little girl, but he's a mighty good girl anyhow, and with a grin on his face he left the dormitory. CHAPTER 11 THE NIGHT OF THE FIRST FRIDAY IN NEVEMBER It was ten o' the night, and though so late in the season, quite warm and extremely oppressive. Above the clear sky was Gembo's stars, in the west hung a thick black cloud. It had been motionless all the day. There was a hush over the dormitory. The feeble light of the lamp at the entrance was utterly insufficient to dim the countenances of the slumberers lying beneath the cupula, and so it would have been difficult for anyone to perceive the Tom play-fair whose beds to directly beneath the cupula was wide awake. With a single exception of the night when he undertook to exercise Green, who, by the way, was now his right-hand neighbor, nothing like this had ever happened to him before. To his left lay Alec Jones, beyond him Harry Quip, and last of the row John Pitch. These five were grouped under and above the cupula. The other occupants were at the further end of the room, separated from this row of five by a space of some thirty odd feet. It would be convenient for the reader to keep these details in mind. Tom, as I have said, was awake. Perhaps a sense of novelty reconciled him to the situation, for he lay very quiet. The subdued breathing of the sleepers was the only sound to break the stillness. Without the winds were hushed, and no cry of man or bird or beast broke upon the brooding calm of the night. For fully half an hour Tom, from their different modes of breathing, endeavored to place the various sleepers. He easily picked out Harry Quip's, and with more difficulty, John pitches. At this point he grew weary of this new study, and cast about in his thoughts for some fresh diversion. It was hard upon eleven o'clock when he concluded to arise, go to a window, and count the stars. As he was setting foot upon the floor, the silvery, sweet voice, with a sacred pathos, and every tone, broke, or really glorified the silence. My Jesus, mercy! The invocation came from Alec. Tom bent down and gazed into the dreamer's face. Even with the feeble light he could perceive lines of terror upon the slight, delicate, innocent features. With a gentleness which, on recalling the incident afterwards, surprised Tom himself. He lightly patted the upturned cheek, and forthwith the face grew strangely calm. A smile tender yet so feeble that the facial muscles scarcely changed, passed over it, and from the lips came the whispered, Sweet Heart of Jesus, be my love. With his hands still resting on the sleeper's cheek, Tom stood gazing upon the radiant face in mute admiration. Amen, he whispered softly to himself. If ever I get to talking in my sleep, I hope I'll do it that style. He removed his hand. Alec opened his eyes. You're all right, Alec. Explain Tom, bending low, to so as to whisper into the boy's ear. You got a hollowing in your sleep, and I just passed my hand to your cheek. Go to sleep again. Good night. And he held out his hand. Good night, Tom, and Alec drew his hand from the coverlet to class Tom's, displaying as he did so his rosary twined about the fragile arm. Then, very gently, Alec fell into a calm slumber. Looking on such a face, it was hard to imagine that the world was full of wickedness and sin. Tom waited till he felt sure that Alec was sound asleep. Then he murmured to himself, I guess I'll count the stars now. Walking over a tip-toe to one of the western windows, he looked out. He counted no stars that night. For the dismal, black cloud was now in motion, advancing ominously, swiftly, in a direct line towards the small boy standing in his night shirt at the window. Whistle the would-be stargazer. Green and Alec were right after all. It is coming back. Even as he spoke, the awful whisper of the approaching storm could be heard. A whisper that lasted but for a moment, when it changed to a sigh, deepened into a groan which grew louder, more violent, more threatening, every second. It's getting chilly, too, murmured Tom to himself. I guess I'll hop into my pants. And very quickly indeed he was fully dressed. Sailor's shirt, knickerbockers, stockings, everything safe his tie in his shoes. And with his usual calmness, returned to the window to watch and wait upon the turn of events. The patter of the rain upon the roof could now be distinctly heard, while far off from the east came the muffled sound of some distant storm. In attempting to take another look from the window, Tom happened to touch a wire fastening for the window curtain. Ouch! he mothered, withdrawing his hand very quickly, and perhaps to the first time since his mother's death he came thoroughly frightened. A queer feeling had passed through his whole body. What could it be? There was something wrong about things, and the mystery frightened him. He had received a sharp shock, but he knew nothing of electricity. The beating of the rain, while Tom was still pondering, became louder and louder, and the boys began to move on easily in their beds. Many indeed were now half awake. The wind, too, was howling about the house in a fury of power. Tom had just reached his bed, when a loud banging noise brought everyone in the room from the land of sleep, and a gust of rain came sweeping in, thoroughly drenching Tom's bed. Ah! that neglected bolt! The door of the cupola had flown open, and was now flapping noisily against the lightning rod. As with noisy recurrence, it opened and shut. Tom cut a glimpse of the stars on the clear eastern horizon, and almost directly overhead, that black sinister cloud hanged like a curse over St. Mars. Even while he was taking in the strange aspect of the heavens, the water had formed into several pools upon the floor. Quip, Jones, Green, and Pitch, all of them with appalled faces had grouped themselves beside Tom. No wonder they were alarmed. The frightful banging of the door, coupled with the fierce beat of the sheeted rain, was in overtax on the nerves of the boldest. Oh, Tom, child of Green, I'm glad I went to holy communion this morning. So am I, answered Tom. Say, boys, I'm going to shut that door, even if I do get a ducking. Good-bye! And he made a dash to the ladder. I'm mindful of the rain, which almost blinded him. He succeeded at length in securing a hold on the door, but pulled and tugged as he might. The wind, now at its height, held its own. Till it last, in the sudden law, door yielded to his efforts. Now, if I could only get my hand on that bolt. He never finished the sentence, for as he was still groping about for the knob, the wind, in a sudden rise, sent the door flying from his grasp. There was a sharp clanging sound, and the dull noise of some heavy object beating upon the roof. And as the door, torn from its hinges, pulled the lighting rod down from the cupula, Tom lost his balance and was thrown backward from his perch. Happily for himself, he was flung upon his bed, when he rolled to the floor. Two boys assisted him to rise and gazed anxiously into his face. On that occasion, Tom, far from being stunned, was unusually awake to every impression. His senses had become sharpened, and as he rose to his feet, he took in the whole scene. At the other end of the dormitory stood huddled together all the boys, Dave, Harry, Pitch, Alec, and Green. The prefect was just advancing from the group towards them. Tom could see all this for the simple reason that a cast-hawk figure, he recognized the president of a college, had just entered with a lamp that lighted the whole room. The two who had lifted him to his feet were Jones and Green. Upon the face of Alec, there still dwelt that sweet expression, brought from dreamland, but softened and beautified in a new way by concern for Tom's safety. All the roughness had gone out of it. Ah, and pity. Ah, at the storm, pity for Tom, had touched it into refinement. All this, I say, Tom took notice of as they raised him to his feet. You're not hurt, old fellow. Are you, inquired Green, earnestly? Not a bit. Thank God, murmured Alec. I'm glad I went this morning, said Green. Tom, said Harry, will help you pull your bed away. Oh, it's no use getting drenched the way I am. We don't mind that, said Green, and he and Alec sprang forward towards Tom's bed. They had not taken two steps when there came a dazzling flash of light. Tom fell violently to the floor, pillowed upon the body of someone who had fallen before him, where he lay motionless, yet conscious, and with a feeling as though every muscle and fiber of his body had been wrenched asunder. Lay there gazing up into a sky now suddenly brilliant, with stars, into a rainless sky, with not a cloud to Mars tranquil beauty. The storm was over. And as he fell, the President's lamp had gone out, and in the dazzling brilliance of that awful flash, he had seen five boys standing under the cupula go plunging forward violently to the floor, while the smell as of burnt powder and of ozone pervaded the whole apartment. Then, almost simultaneously indeed, came a deafening noise. To the President's ears had sounded like the explosion of a powder magazine on his side, but he knew that it was not an explosion of powder. He knew too well that it was the thunder following the lightning flash, which had stricken down his boys before his very eyes. And in the dread hush and darkness that followed, the President's boys, clear and firm, filled the room with the words of sacramental absolution, as, raising his hand, and making the sign of the cross, he said, Agavos absolvo a picatis festis annomine patri effili espiritus sancti amem. I absolve you from your sins and the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. The presiding prefect had, in the meantime, relighted his dormitory lamp, which had also gone out in the shock of a lightning stroke, and was now standing beside his superior. Boys, continued the latter, who in the dim light perceived several moving forms, take your clothes on your arm and leave this room quietly, one by one. Go to the infirmary. The storm is now over, and there's not the least danger. On occasions such as this, the panic does not immediately follow the catastrophe. Between the two there is always a law. A time when the imagination of each is charging itself with the realization of what has passed, with the picturing of what may come. That done, the panic takes its course. The president had taken the right time for speaking. Had he lost his head for one moment, there would have ensued an all probability of frightful scene. But his calmness gained the mastery over all. Quietly, noiselessly with pitiful faces, the boys passed down the stairs. How eagerly he counted them. It was the most trying period of his long life. Six passed. Three more. Nine. Three more. Twelve. The last was the pre-fact. Then there was a silence. His senses then had not deceived him. Five had been struck by lightning. He had relighted his lamp, and now hastened to the other end. Tom, his eyes closed, lay with his head peeled upon Green's body. Near him, Alec Jones, calm, so quiet. Beyond was clip, breathing heavily with an ugly gash upon his face. Pitch was in a sitting posture, murmuring incoherent words. Tom, cried the president, stooping down and catching the boys' hand. The eyes opened. Yes, sir. I'm all right. What's happened? The president made a slight gesture and bent over Green. No need to listen for the breath that never would return. He moved over to Alec Jones, and a stifled sob burst from his bosom. Green and Jones had been instantly killed, had never heard the crash to follow the dazzling stroke, had been caught suddenly before that God whom they had received at the morning mass into their bosoms. It was the first Friday. Tom's wet garments had saved him. The electricity had taken its way through his clothes instead of through himself, but he did not know at the moment that he had passed forth free from the jaws of death. For not one of those now remaining in the dormitory saved the president was aware that the power which sent them stunned to the floor was the awful power of the Thunderbolt. End of Chapter 11 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 12 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 12 Tom's Midnight Adventure Harry Are you hurt? Tom was bending over Harry Quip. But there came no answer. The president touched Tom lightly on the shoulder. Playfair, he said. Can I trust you to keep cool? Yes, sir. If you just tell me what's happened there was a queer feeling went through me just now and something seemed to burn my right leg. The house has been struck by lightning and you received a slight shock. Harry Quip got a worse one and Green and Jones are seriously injured. You and Pitch might remove Harry to a bed over there. But don't tell him when he comes to what's happened to the others and be sure not to show him a long face or you'll frighten him. Catch hold of his head, Johnny, said Tom. With tender care they conveyed poor Harry to the nearest bed. While the president still cherishing a faint hope in his heart he really sought to discover some signs of life in Green and Jones. Harry, shortly after being placed upon the bed gave signs of consciousness. Hello, Harry, cried Tom, forcing a grin. Tom, Harry gave a gasp. Yes, it's me and you're all right, old boy. What's happened? An electric machine got loose or something, replied our ingenuous hero and spilled itself on top of us. They let you have it at fairs for five cents a head. But even this comic view of the situation failed to win a smile from Harry. Where's my leg, he gasped. Both your legs are screwed on in the right place. No, my right leg's gone. Tom caught the right leg and lifted it into full view. How does that strike you? But I don't feel it. Well, catch hold of it then. It won't come off. You gave me an awful kick with it just a moment ago. I'm joking, continued Harry. If you were, you couldn't talk. But I can't swallow. Oh, and Harry looked more and more frightened. Who in the mischief asked you to swallow? It isn't breakfast time yet, and there's nothing to eat round here anyhow. The infomerian, who had entered at the beginning of this conversation and who, having satisfied himself that Green and Jones were dead, had now come to Harry's side, here broke in. Playfair, we want the doctor at once. Run downstairs to the room on the next floor where the brothers sleep. They are dressing now to come up here and lend us help. Take the first one you meet or the one that's nearest dressed, and tell him to hurry off after the doctor. We want him for Harry Quip. Waiting for no second bidding, Tom followed by Pitch, hurry from the dormitory. Luckily they met a brother who was just coming up the stairs, and as the house clocks struck twelve, Tom delivered his message. I'll have the doctor here within half an hour, said the brother, turning about at once. I'm coming along, brother George. No, you better go to sleep. I couldn't sleep now, brother. Oh, please let me go. Brother George made no answer, and Tom, taking silence for consent, followed after him. As a matter of course, Pitch clung to his leader. Once out of doors, they sped through the garden and took the high road leading to St. Mars. Suddenly their course was arrested, for most unprecedented thing had come to pass. There was an insignificant creek flowing past the college and down to the river. Ordinarily it was very shallow, but the furious rain of the preceding day and the past hour had caused it to swell into a muddy torrent. Worst of all, there was no sign of the bridge. The bridge isn't swept away, cried Tom. I wish I could swim, said brother George. Boys, you remain here, and I'll go to one of the houses on this side and get help. Scarcely had he turned his back upon them, when Tom pulled off his shoes, stockings, and sailor shirt. What are you going to do, Tom? Didn't you hear the brother say he'd swim it if he could? I can swim that far. Oh, but it's an awful current. You'll be carried down to the river. Tom gazed at the swirling stream. Apparently some fifty feet wide, moving in all the swing of a torrent at his feet. All that I won't, he said presently. Anyhow, I'm willing to take a risk for old quip. Here, Johnny, just lend me your scaplers. I haven't been rolled in them yet, but it won't hurt me to wear them. I think I'd better start higher up so I can land about here on the other side. Hearing put Pitch's scapulars about his neck, Tom ran some distance upstream. Now, Pitch, goodbye. Shake hands. It's a risk, you know. If anything happens, you send word to my father and my aunt that I had the scaplers on. Tom was decidedly of the opinion that this bit of information would make up for anything that might occur. So, somewhat serious, yet light and bold of heart, he slipped into the water. He took one step forward and found himself up to his waist. Another step, and caught by the current, he was whirled downstream like a cork. But this cork had legs and arms and struck out vigorously for the shore. Vigorous as were his strokes, however, he felt almost at once that he wouldn't any event be carried far downstream before reaching the other shore. For all that, he struck out bravely beating the water with overhand stroke. Tom, at this period of his life, was by no means an expert swimmer. He had attended a swimming school several times a week during the last summer, and had succeeded in learning to swim a short distance and to float on his back. But he knew nothing of swimming with the current, and in consequence quickly expended his strength. Before he had gone two-thirds of the distance across, he was worn out. But his presence of mind did not desert him. Murmuring a prayer, he turned over on his back and moving his feet gently, he suffered himself to be carried along. He had not drifted far when his body came in contact with something a few feet below the water. Turning instantly, he secured a hold on it with his hands. Hurrah! He shouted to Pitch. I'm all right. I found the railing of the bridge. It's only about two feet under water. And, clinging to this, Tom made his way hand-over-hand, as it were, to the opposite shore. Dr. Mullen was not a little surprised when he opened his front door three minutes later upon a boy arrayed in the simplicity of undershirt and knickerbockers, who was battering away at his door with a log of wood as though he would burst it open. Oh! Doctor! Our college has been struck by lightning. Three fellows are badly hurt, and you're one it there right off. John, bowed the doctor, settled my horse at once. Come in, boy. You'll need a doctor, too, if you don't look out. How did you wet yourself? I couldn't find the bridge, sir, and I tried to swim across. I found it then, or I reckon I'd be in the river by this time. The doctor's wife, who had caught these words, now came forward, and kissing Tom in true motherly style, in action with Tom in his state of excitement took no notice of, drew off his undershirt, and threw her own cloak about him. That's just the thing, Mary, put in Dr. Mullen. Now get him a small glass of brandy while I put him to bed. Oh! I say, cried Tom. I'm not sick. You go off and take care of the fellows that need you. Returning no answer to this expostulation, the doctor pushed Tom into his own sleeping-room, and without further ceremony pulled off our young swimmers' knickerbuckers and proceeded to rub him down vigorously. Ouch! cried Tom suddenly. Why, boy, you're burnt! The doctor was gazing at a spot on Tom's right knee about the form and size of the human heart. I thought there was something to matter when I pulled off my stockings. That's where the electricity took me. Were you struck, too? I think so. I went tumbling over as if I was paralyzed. That burn isn't much. It's good as no more. And the doctor, who had opened a medicine chest, applied an ointment to the spot, bandaged it, and had Tom wrapped warm in his own bed before his wife entered the room with a glass of brandy. Now, boy, these are your orders. You stay in this bed till nine o'clock tomorrow. By keeping quiet, you'll escape the consequences of overexcitement and overexertion. You understand? But, doctor, I can't sleep. You can, though. Mary, if this boy doesn't go to sleep in ten minutes, give him a teaspoonful of this. Now, goodbye. The doctor, aided by the directions of Pitch and the brother, easily found the bridge and made the college in a few minutes. Jonathan Green gave him no trouble. They were beyond doctor's skill, had been from the moment the bolt touched them. But for the rest of the night he was busy nursing and warming and rubbing poor Harry's legs into life. Harry, meanwhile, under the influence of an opiate, slept a dreamless sleep watched over with loving care by a gentle woman. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 13 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Thin S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 13 in which Tom takes a trip As this story concerns Thomas Playfair and only incidentally the history of St. Mars the reader will be spared the shared details concerning the night of the catastrophe and of the ensuing days of mourning. Tom, whom we have to do with was conducted to the infirmary Saturday morning by the doctor in person. Brother, he said to the infomerian, here is a boy who is to get complete rest for the next seven or eight days. Tom, who was standing behind the doctor and the infomerian, smiled genuinely, raised his right leg and while balancing himself on his left, waved his best modically. Just look at him, continued the doctor turning sharply and catching him in the act. He's trying to knock his burned leg against something even now. No, I ain't. Protested this confident acrobat bringing his foot to the floor. I am not a fool. Whereupon he resumed his smile. The rug knew that Harry Quip would be his companion. Of course, brother, pursued the man in medicine. You are to die at him. Tom's face fell. Die at me? With what doctor? With a boat-hook, answered the grave practitioner without showing the least sign of a twinkle in his eye. He added in a lower tone to the infomerian. Three pieces of toast and tea for breakfast. Same for supper with beef tea instead of tea for dinner. Tom overheard him. I say, he broke in. I'm not sick. I went to go to school and keep it with my classes. You can't go out for a week, sir, and if you don't keep your legs quiet, I'll not let you out for two weeks. Now remember, young fellow, no hopping over beds, no skipping, no jumping about the room, no running. When you have to walk, walk slowly. But the best thing you can do is to keep perfectly quiet. Opsha! Tom was disgusted. Even Quip, jolly as ever, though battered, could not reconcile him to his imprisonment. Nor did he become more reconciled as the days passed. After swallowing his toast, he was wont to seek out the infomerian. Brother, he would say, I think I'm ready for breakfast now. I just brought it to you. What? You called out a breakfast? Look here, brother. I'm paid for. The brother would answer with a grin and Tom would turn away growling. On Saturday of the following week, he received a letter which elicited a whoop from him. What are you howling about now? Ask Quip, who, with the exception of a slight bruise and a touch of stiffness, was as well as ever. Read it yourself! cried Tom, tossing the letter to Harry and hopping about the room in an ecstasy of joy. Thus the letter ran. St. Louis, November 6, 18 Master Thomas Playfair, Dear son, have just heard from president of college further details of calamity and of your sickness. Here, too, that you have been changing for the better, got more sense, more faithful to your duty, study harder. God to learn, too, that you are brave, though far too reckless. Best of all, I'm told that your company is good. Although president pronounces you quite well, he thinks that a few weeks rest and change might be safe, as nervous shocks are likely to leave after effects. As I wrote you last September, your uncle has gone to Cincinnati, where, as he says, he is studying law. In a few days, I shall be compelled to go there on business, and your aunt has already made an engagement to see a friend there. Start for Cincinnati at once. We'll telegraph your uncle to meet you at Depot. Have advised president to procure you through ticket and enclose you $25 for pocket money. Goodbye to we meet and God bless you. Your father, George Playfair. At half past two that afternoon, Tom, standing on the platform of a car, waved his handkerchief to his playmates as the train shot past the college. Kansas City was reached 15 minutes after scheduled time, and Tom, who had been counting for the last three hours on a grand lunch at the railroad depot, was obliged to hurry from his car to the Cincinnati train in order to make connections. But here, his forced patience was rewarded. Ladies and gents, shout out a fat little man who seemed to be in a perpetual state of breathlessness. A dining car is attached to this train and supper with all the delicacies of the season is now served. How much, inquired Tom, catching the fat man's sleeve and fastening upon him one of the most earnest gazes the fat man had ever encountered. Seventy-five cents cash without any promo. Do you want to come in for half price? Do you take us for a circus? The fat man was chuckling between each word. Pasha, is that all? Why, mister, I'd be willing to lay out five dollars on a square meal. If you're going to lose on me this trip, I've got a whole week to make up for. Come right along, then, said the fat man. And Tom needed no second bidding. A negro with an austere face and a white apron moved the chair for Tom and, handing him the menu, waited for the order. Tom's brows knitted as he read the bewildering list, a sort of macaronic out of rhyme and meter. I say, couldn't you let me have a program in English of this entertainment? The negro, changing his austere expression, not one wit, rattled forth. Chicken roaster boiled chicken salad eggs fried poached boiled omelet with jelly preferred beef stick lamb mutton chops veal ham sausages potatoes fried boiled suratoga chips tomatoes raw eggplant baked beans apple and custard pie coffee cream tea and bananas That'll do, I think, said Tom. Fetch him in. The waiter changed expression. Fetch in which? Those things you were singing out. The waiter scratched his head. Look here, said Tom confidentially. I haven't had a square meal for a week. A doctor's been practicing on me till I'm nearly roland. Now you just go to work and get me lots to eat. Get me a good square meal, and I'll give you fifty cents for yourself. There wasn't a sign of austerity on the negro's face as he hurried away. Tom was served with a meal fit for starving prince, and he did a justice. The negro, stationed behind him, could scarce credit his eyes. Nothing equal to Tom's performances had ever come under his observation. Tom, ignorant of the admiration he had excited, applied knife and fork in a quiet, determined way, wishing in his heart that the doctor and the infomerian could see him. It would be a sweet revenge. Come here, whispered the waiter to one of his fellows. This young chap won't be able to get up. He'll bust. However, after three quarters of an hour's steady attention to the matter in hand, Tom arose quite calmly. We're upon four waiters who've been viewing his performance from behind and expressing their wonder in dumb shows, slipped quietly away, and, making a huge sign of the cross, returned thanks for his meal. I said my prayers after I said my prayers after meals three times, he remarked confidentially to the waiter as he gave him one dollar and twenty-five cents, because I think I got in at least three suppers. Tom ought to have been sick that night. He should have suffered intensely. The doctors and storybooks are at one on this point. All the same, he retired early and slept a dreamless sleep, which lasted for over nine hours. And, if the recording angel put anyone on the blacklist for gluttony on that particular day, I am inclined to think it was the doctor and not the patient. End of Chapter 13 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 14 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 14 in which Tom goes to the theater Shortly after six o'clock of the following evening, the breakman, throwing open the door of the Pullman car, balled out with Senate-like Hydrostatic, but was really intended to convey the correct rarer pronunciation of Cincinnati. Tom sees his release and hurried through the car into the depot. Why, Tommy, kind our old or young friend, Mr. Meadow, rushing up and catching Tom's disengaged hand, welcomed to Cincinnati, glad to see you, and you look so well. You've grown, too, and you're improved ever so much. I'm really glad to see you, Uncle, said Tom, returning the hardy handshake with no less hardiness Indeed I am. You've changed, too. Your mustache is very plain now, isn't it? And you're dressed awful stylishly. I'm glad I have my new clothes on, or I'd feel ashamed to walk with you. How do you like Cincinnati? It's a splendid place, Tommy, answered Mr. Meadow as they walked out of the depot and made toward a streetcar. The people are very nice, and there's more amusement here than in St. Louis. Tom took a stealthy side glance at his uncle. Oh, these little boys. Some of them re-characters with an intuition which humbles the widest experience. Yes, but I thought you came here to study law. So I did, but I'm kept so busy that I haven't settled down yet. You look heavy round the eyes, as if you stayed up late, Uncle. Yes, I suffered from insomnia a great deal, answered Mr. Meadow, puzzled to find that he was annoyed under Tom's innocent analysis. How have you been doing since you left St. Louis? Pretty well, Uncle. I made a bad start, but now I'm doing better. You see, Uncle, I'm trying to get ready to make my first communion. Indeed. Yes, I hope it will be the happiest day of my life. A few earnest, sympathetic words from Mr. Meadow at this juncture might have raised their mutual relations to a higher level. But Mr. Meadow did not understand boys. His influence on Tom in consequence was bad, he said. Here's our car. Jump on, Tommy. His chance was gone. He noticed a strange expression on Tom's face. It was as though the boy had received a blow. Now, there was nothing in the words of the Uncle to produce this effect. But in our mutual relations, there is something more potent than words. Manners, expression, and sympathy, or the want of it, are the chief causes that go towards gaining or losing our influence upon one another. Mr. Meadow felt that a wall of separation had at once arisen between himself and his nephew that their intercourse hereafter was to be on the surface. He fell into a train of reflection suggested by this incident. And, while Tom, with the liveliest interest of a boy in a strange city, took note of everything in his new surroundings, the Uncle maintained silence till, at a signal from him, the car stopped at a street crossing. Here we are, Tom. Jump off, and we'll be just in time for supper. Walking to an adjoining square, Mr. Meadow pointed to a cheerful, two-story building. Is that your house, Uncle? That's where I board. All the rooms in the upper floor are mine. As Mr. Meadow had remarked, they were in time for supper. At which meal, owing to the fact that two young ladies with their father and mother were present, Tom was content to eat little and contribute his share to the conversation by an occasional yesim and nomim, which, as he directed either reply indiscriminately to either sex, did not serve to set him at his ease, though it sent the young ladies into a series of giggles, till Tom, through sheer force of indignation, recovered both tongue and appetite to the admiration of all present. After supper, Mr. Meadow proposed the theatre. Tom was delighted with the suggestion, and an hour later both receded in the pit of a closed building, waiting for the curtain to rise. Tom, he must be confessed, was somewhat astonished by his surroundings. The audience failed to impress him favorably, and the sight of waiters hurrying about with their trays did not suit his ideas at all. Is this a first-class theatre, Uncle? Yes, that is, it's a first-class variety. Would you like a glass of beer or soda before the show begins? Gnaw, said Tom, his disgust entering into and distorting his pronunciation, and he wished at that moment that he were back at St. Mars. The curtain presently lifted, and for an hour or so, he tried to enjoy jigs, comic songs, and what was announced on the program as a screaming farce, but he found it weary work keeping him used. The atmosphere, too, soon gave him a headache. Mr. Meadow seemed to be perfectly happy. Tom glanced at him curiously, I'm glad I'm not made that way, he thought. If this whole business isn't what Mr. Middle-Ting calls unhealthy, then I'm pretty stupid. It's coarse and vulgar. Say, Uncle, he resumed aloud as the curtain fell upon the screaming farce. Screaming actors will be truer. I am getting a headache, and if you have no objection, I'll go outside and take a breath of fresh air for a while. Now, Mr. Meadow was very dry, and desirous also of conversing between the acts with a few young men, whom he did not purpose introducing to Tom. So he caught eagerly at the opportunity. Certainly, Tommy, here's a dollar to buy some candy. Don't go far and come back soon. All right, Uncle. Tom went out. As the next chapter will show, he never entered the theater again. End of Chapter 14 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 15 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 15 in which Tom is lost Tom was at last free to follow his bent. From the moment he had left St. Mars to the present, he had had no fun to use his own expression. Now that he was rid of Mr. Meadow, he was determined to make the best of the opportunity. Nor did the question of ways and means trouble him. In the matter of amusement, Tom, like every well-constituted small boy, was of unfailing resource. Say, he began to the ticket seller, I'm going out. How'll I get back? You can take a carriage, said the facetious ticket seller, if you don't care about walking. Tom returned his grin. I mean, how'll I get back without paying over again? Oh, here's a check, Johnny. How are you enjoying the performance? It's made me glad to get out. And without waiting for the ticket seller's retort, Tom, satisfied that he had squared accounts, sallied forth into the night and cast his eyes about in search of a confectionary. The street was brilliant with electric lights. Every variety of street lights, every variety of store seemed to be in the neighborhood of the theater. Two saloons across the way, sandwiched between them in Oyster House, and stretching to either side were shops of many kinds, all open and all seemingly driving a busy trade. Tom took a long look at the saloons. He was impressed, not favorably indeed, with a number of men in each. Pasha, he muttered, it makes me feel like taking the pledge for life. He had scarcely made this reflection when his attention was arrested by the sight of a small boy, who, with a bundle of papers under his arm, passed one of the saloons and, pausing in front of the Oyster House, stood gazing in through the large show-glass. Tom was growing lonesome. With a hop and a bound he crossed the street, and noiselessly placed himself behind the news-boy. The object of his attention was a lad of little more than eleven. He was neatly but scantily attired. The sleeves of his jacket and knees of his knicker-bockers were patched, and his shoes were open at the toes. The face was quite beautiful, beautiful with some hint of refinement, all the more beautiful, perhaps, that it was touched and softened by sadness. But the eyes, large and black, how eagerly they looked into that window. Tom was satisfied with the inspection. He put himself alongside the news-boy, and set to staring in himself. Paper, sir, said the boy. What paper? Poster Time Star. How much? Two cents for the star, sir, and one cent for the post, sir. You needn't talk to me as if I was your father, said Tom. I'll tell you what I'll do, Johnny. I'll take a copy of each and give you a dime for him if you'll tell me your name. Thank you, sir. My name's Arthur Vane. And Arthur received Tom's tencent piece with unmistakable signs of gratitude. And my name's Tom Plafer. Just drop that, sir, and call me Tom. I'm glad to meet a fellow my own size. I haven't talked to a boy for three days, and grown people are so tiresome. Arthur here smiled, and the twinkle in his eye events that for all his sadness, he was naturally a merry lad. I think, he put in, that it might be better if you could get boys of your own class and life to talk with you. Just listen to him, said Tom, apostrophizing the oyster shop. Talking to me as if I wasn't an American. By Arthur, I'm a Democrat. But your mother and father mightn't like it, said Arthur, very much astonished with his new acquaintance. My father's in St. Louis, answered Tom. And my mother's in heaven. And what's more, you're just as well up in talk as most boys of your size. And it's my opinion that you haven't been on the streets very long either. I took a good look at you before I came up, and I'll bet anything you're not used to taking care of yourself. You're right, Tom. I've been supporting myself and little sister for only two months. Papa died when he came here, and left us only a little money. A little sister, too? Yes, Tom. Poor little Kate has been very sick, but now she's almost well. She's in charge of the kind sisters. Instead of continuing the conversation, Tom caught Arthur by the shoulder and bending down stairs straight into his eyes. See here, he began after a pause. Can you remember the last time you got a square meal? The lustrous-eyed boy with the pale, thin face smiled again. I had a pretty good meal yesterday, but today I've had hard luck. This morning I was stuck. On the Latin verb or pitchfork, or what, query, Tom? Arthur laughed again. That's a newsboy's term. Tom, we're stuck when we buy in papers and have a lot left unsold. Oh, that's it, so you didn't get a square meal today. I had a plate of soup and two pieces of bread at noon. How much? asked Tom. Six cents. Think of a little boy going around with six cents worth of provisions. Say, Arthur, do you like oysters? Oh, don't I? exclaimed Arthur with enthusiasm. I thought you meant something by looking in through that window. It's the same way with me, continued Tom gravely. I'm uncommonly fond of oysters myself, and so are all my friends. Now I'll treat. You go right in and order all you want. Here's a dollar. Is that enough? I'd like to take it, said Arthur looking wistfully at the money. But I can't. It isn't fair. But it is fair, answered Tom. You're worth a dollar to me and more. Oh, Arthur, you don't know how tired I am of hearing grown folks talking about elections and stocks and bonds. That's all I've been listening to for three days. It's terrible. It got so bad that I felt like praying never to grow up. After further words, Arthur consented to take 50 cents. He was about to enter the oyster house when Tom snatched his bundle of papers. What are you up to now, Tom? I'll keep the business going at the old stand while you're eating, I'll sell. And without waiting for remonstrance, Tom darted away. Here you are, he shrouded, putting in his head at the saloon to his right. All the evening papers with all the news about the elections and stocks and bonds. Elections? Where? exclaimed a portly gentleman, holding a glass in suspense. Don't know, sir. There's all these news about elections in the paper. The gentleman smiled and, joining in the laughter at his expense, bought a paper and insisted on several of his companions following his example. Tom, richer by 15 cents, repaired to the next saloon. Here he made the same announcement and was sternly ordered out by a barkeeper, all bang and jewelry. Nothing dawned, he took a position at the nearest street corner and exerted his eloquence on every pass or by. But he found this slow work. Five minutes passed and he had disposed about one more paper. I didn't get a fair chance in that saloon, he murmured. I think I'll try it again. He peered in cautiously this time and when the barkeeper's back was turned, rushed in. Last chance, gentlemen. Here are all the evening papers, complete and unabridged. The barkeeper, with an ugly word, sprang over the counter and made a rush at him. Tom stood his ground, looking the enraged attendant squarely in the face. Which paper do you want, sir? Time, star, or post. Get out of here, you beggar, cried the barkeeper, pausing suddenly as he saw that Tom did not take to flight. You needing call names. I'm not a beggar. I'm selling these newspapers for a little fellow who's half-starved. The barkeeper glanced around and perceived at once that the popular sympathy was against him. Give me a star, Johnny, he said, and presently every man in the room was buying a paper. Tom's pluck had caught their fancy while his declaration had touched their hearts. In a few moments he had disposed of his stock and resisting several offers to take a drink, hurried away to rejoin Arthur. He found his little friend seated alone at a large table with a plate of fried oysters before him. I'm hungry myself, observed Tom, helping himself liberally to Arthur's dish. Order a dozen more, Arthur, and I'll help you eat them. Where are the papers? inquired Arthur. So, every one of them. I didn't have a bit of trouble, though I thought that big barkeeper next door would murder me. But he didn't. He bought a paper, and then by asking me to take a drink. You don't mean to say that you got to clean them to buy a paper, the fellow to our right? But I did, though, and I sold over fifteen papers in his saloon. Well, you're the funniest boy I ever met. There's not a newsboy in the city dares go into his saloon. They're afraid of him awfully. I was afraid too, said Tom, but when I saw him rushing at me, I had just braced myself up to see what he'd do. Tom, I'd like to live with you all the time. Glad you like me, Arthur. Go on and order more oysters. Thank you, I've had enough. So have I. How are you on ice cream? Let me treat this time, Tom. There's a nice confectionary right around the corner. In this realistic age, one must be careful not to tell the whole truth, lest one be convicted of exaggeration. So I passed slightly over the astonishing feats of Tom and Arthur in the ice cream parlor. As Tom paid the bill, he glanced at the clock over the counter. He wanted twenty-five minutes to twelve. Arthur, I forgot all about him. Oh gracious. Who? My uncle. I left him across there in the theater. Why, the theater left out half an hour ago. Then Arthur, I'll tell you a secret. What, Tom? Cart Arthur breastlessly, for he was impressed with his companion's gray face. I'm lost. Don't you know where you live? No, don't even know the name of the street. Uncle Meadow will be the maddest man in Cincinnati. The fact is, you were having such a jolly good time that I forgot all about him. Well, you're the queerest boy I ever met. I don't see anything queer about it. I'm lost, and you've got to take care of me. That's all. Arthur laughed musically. Looking upon him now, one would hardly recognize the sad-eyed boy of the previous hour. It's so funny, Tom, to hear you talking of being taken care of by me. Where do you sleep nights, continued Tom? I haven't any regular place since we gave up housekeeping. Loa, who gave up housekeeping? My little sister and I, till she got sick, we had two little bits of room in Noah's Ark. Noah's Ark, he ejaculated Tom. That's what the St. Xavier College boys call it. It's a great big tenement house right across the alley from the college. And in fact, it does look something like an Ark. Well, little Kate and I were there and happy as larks. She was just the best sister and kept the room so bright and cheerful that I used to be so glad to come home after looking around all day for work. She could cook and sew like a grown person, although she's only nine. Who paid for you, broken Tom? Well, in the beginning we had a little over twelve dollars left by poor Papa, but after two weeks we had hardly anything left. Then I had to go to selling papers and taking up all kinds of odd jobs. And in spite of all, I could hurl the escape of enough money to pay the rent. After a while we had hard times getting anything to eat. I didn't mind so much for myself, but poor little Kate kept on getting thinner and paler. Didn't you have any friends? No, Tom. We were strangers in the city. Then Kate took sick, didn't she? Yes, Tom. And a good woman who lived in the tenement got the sisters to take care of her. And now she's quite well. But I don't know what to do. I'm not able to support myself, and I can't bear to think of seeing Kate starving right under my eyes. They were standing under a lamp post during this conversation, and Tom could observe the signs of tears upon his little friend's face. Well, said Tom, checking down his own emotion, we'll hold a council war tonight before we go to sleep. Do you know any good hotel around here? There is a place across the street, the European Hotel. Tom glanced at the building disdainfully. No, we want something first class. We'll put up at the best hotel you know of. The Burnett House is about four squares away. That sounds better. I think Tom succeeded in astonishing more people on that eventful night than within the same period of time any boy that ever came to Cincinnati. On the register of the Burnett House, he wrote in a large, bold hand. Tom is playfair, traveling student, and a gravely edit to Arthur's signature merchant. We want a first class room and breakfast at seven, said Tom to the clerk, who become unusually wide awake. Four dollars in advance for the room, sir, said that functionary. I didn't save rooms or not accompanied by our families. Here's a dollar for one room. Two dollars, sir, said the clerk, now as thoroughly wide awake as he had ever been in his life. There's the other dollar, you didn't mind about sending up shaving water in the morning. The clerk laughed and summoning a bell boy, directed him to show the gentleman, number eight, second floor. Hotel clerks are men of large experience in certain directions. Hence, notwithstanding the late hour, and the fact that the guests were boys without luggage, the aroused official was so taken with the honest little faces before him that he allowed them the privileges of the house without further investigation. I am bound to say, though, that our two friends availed themselves of a privilege not ordinarily accorded to travelers. No sooner had the bell boy left them in possession of their room than Tom picked up a pillow from the bed and proposed a game of catch. Stationing themselves at opposite corners, the two tossed the pillow gently at first, till, growing interested in their work, they threw with not a little energy. And as an agreeable variety, Tom got the other pillow, and before long they came to a genuine pillow fight, hurling their downy missiles and dodging about in a manner that sent the blood to their cheeks and caused their eyes to dance with excitement. The boy who has no heart for pillow fighting is fit for treasons, stratogens, and spoils. Let no such boy be trusted. The contest waxed fiercer, that is, merrier each moment. Finally, Tom, pillow in hand, charged apart Arthur. There was a rapid interchange of blows, such movement and noise of little feet, and a swaying from side to side of the room. To what length, with a well-directed blow, Tom sent his antagonist, sprawling upon the bed. It was then they noticed for the first time that someone was gently knocking at the door. Oh! said Arthur, turning pale. We're in for it now. Tom threw the door open and found himself facing a mild-eyed old gentleman who seemed to be far more frightened than Arthur. Good evening, sir. Won't you walk in? I beg your pardon, young sir, but I thought there was a murder or something going on in this room, and I was awakened a few minutes ago by the noise as the people struggling for life. It wasn't that bad, sir. There was a struggle, but it wasn't for life. My friend over there on the bed, added tom wickedly, is very noisy. The old gentleman now understood the situation, the light that shot from his eye and the smile that curled about his lips events that he, too, had been a boy in the golden long ago. Well, young sir, may I ask you as a favor not to make any more noise tonight. We old people can't afford to lose our sleep. Certainly, sir, honest I didn't think about waking people up. I'll behave till morning, sir. Good night. Good night, young sir, answered the gentleman smiling benevolently, and God bless you. A lot of pity, said Tom, as the door closed that he's grown up. He must have been a jolly boy. Yes, indeed, assented Arthur. It's the old story, Arthur. Folks get spoiled once they go up. They haven't right ideas about fun. Now, if that old gentleman had been a boy, he'd have come rushing in with his pillow. Yes, assented Arthur, and if all the people in the hotel had been boys, they'd all have rushed in with their pillows. Just so. And we'd have had a gorgeous time. It's a mistake for people to live long, but it seems to me if a boy's good, the best thing he can do is to die when he's 16 or 17. Of course, if he's a sinner, it's right for him to live and take his punishment like a man. Where did you get that idea, Tom? I don't know, but I've thought about it lots the last few days. You see, if a boy doesn't do anything real bad, he's bound to be pretty happy. Then he dies and goes to heaven, or there's just no end to fun, and gets saved hearing all that stuff about elections and stocks and bonds. Some boys have awful troubles, Tom. Well, the sooner they get to heaven, the better. Just the same, I'm not anxious to die yet. I want to make my first communion. There were two friends of mine, Arthur, who struck down dead. But it was on the first Friday, and both were speaking about having gone to communion that very day. Bear, all right. Come, let's say our prayers, and then when we get to bed, I'll tell you all about it. And before these two lads went to sleep, they had built in the intimacy of an hour of friendship, which we older folk find to be the work of many years. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 16 Of Tom Play Bear or Making a Start By Francis J. Finn S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 16 In which Tom enters upon a career of extravagance When Arthur awoke next morning, he stared in no little surprise at Tom, who was standing before Amir, and surveying himself with evident complacency. Why, Tom, he called out, are you a real boy, or is the whole thing a dream? Yes, answered Tom with his customary modesty, it's a short thing that I'm a real boy. What are you staring at? But you've got my clothes on. Yes, don't I look fine in them? You do look well in anything, Tom, but in the meantime, how am I to dress? Take mine, came the sententious answer, as Tom turned his back to the mirror and creamed his neck in a vain effort to see how he looked from that point of view. No, I won't, Tom. You've been too good to me already. I'll not take another thing from you. All right, if you don't put those clothes on, you'll have to stay in bed for a while. I'm going to leave in about ten minutes. I won't put them on. You've got to. See here, didn't you tell me last night that you'd take my advice? Yes, but then you know. Never mind the rest. My first advice is to put on those togs of mine. They're a pretty good suit, but I've got another suit along with me that's just as good. Tom, as usual, had his way and waxed enthusiastic over his new friend's appearance. My, Arthur, but you look splendid. You see, you're rather skinny, and your instinct made it plain to everybody. Now you look like you're a young swell. Indeed, Arthur's appearance had really improved. Even his face had changed for the better. The eyes shined with a joyous twinkle. The lines of misery and distress had softened. The refinement and delicacy of expression were now quite noticeable. Two months upon the streets, who would believe it of that gentle boy? That was Arthur's guardian angel could have explained the mystery, and into that explanation would have largely entered the sweet prayers and tender sympathy and elevating influence of a dear little sister's love. Tom did not hear any guardian angel say this, but it came home to him all the same as he gazed upon Arthur, who was blushing under his scrutiny. Arthur, he said aloud, I want your sister to see you in good form. It will do her more good than all the quinite and paragoric in the world. When you walk in on her the way you are now, we'll get breakfast right away, and then you'll bring me down to the depot, so as I can find my way to uncle's, and we'll shake hands for a while. Then tomorrow you'll come and pay me a visit. That's a nice plan, Tom, but you must come and see my sister first. Me, exclaimed Tom, shocked into the objective case. Why, it would spoil the whole plan. There'd be no fun at all when she sees me rigged out in your clothes. I'll tell her anyhow, even if you don't come, and I'll fetch her around to see you too. It's my turn now to have my way. You've got to come. But I never talk to girls. I don't even know how it's done. Shaw, that's nothing. You know she's almost a baby. I don't like babies, said Tom, growing eloquent. One baby looks just the same as another, and if you don't say a baby looks just like its paw, its mama gets mad. Then babies don't do anything but scream and eat. They have no hair and no teeth and no sense. The only thing good about a baby is that it doesn't stay that way forever. It grows into something, but it's tiresome waiting. Kate has a full head of hair, a set of teeth, and lots of sense for her age. Now, Tom, I'll feel really miserable if you don't come. Tom sighed. She's only nine, he inquired, just nine a few months ago. Well, I'll go, Arthur. Then Arthur wrung his hand and so beamed over with joy, that Tom became fully reconciled to what he considered the coming ordeal. And an ordeal it promised to be from the very start. For, when an hour later, the two, having finished their breakfast, entered the hospital and were walking along a vast corridor, a little girl was dreaming hair and shining eyes came running toward them. Oh, Arthur, she cried, dashing straight at Tom, who ducked very cleverly. I looked as sheepish as it was possible for him to look, while the girl checked herself and sprang back, blushing, and Arthur shook with suppressed laughter. I, eh, eh, it's the other fellow, I think, blurted out, Tom. And the other fellow, with great tact, put an end to the awkwardness of the situation, by catching little sister and saluting her in true brotherly fashion. And now, Kate, he said, actually, let me introduce you to the boy you were throwing yourself at. He's the best. Oh, I say, broken Tom, you needn't begin that way. It's bad enough. I'm Tom Playfair and you're Kate Bane. How do you do, Kate? And Tom shook hands with some return of his ordinary kindness. Oh, Mr. Playfair. Tom interpolated the young gentleman, impatched a tire. Tom, she went on, accepting the correction, but I really thought you were brother Arthur. Oh, it's all right now, said Tom. I'm not used to being taken for a brother. You see, I never had any sisters, and that's why I got so nervous. And then, despite her hero's protests, Arthur insisted upon describing at length the adventures of the preceding night. It was an awkward time for Tom, but as he sat in the neatly appointed room into which Kate had conducted them, he bore it with what meekness he could summon for the occasion. The little child who faced him was very like Arthur, with a beautiful and refined face, but so pale and thin. Sickness had stolen the rose of you of health and left in its dead a pillar upon the delicate features. Sickness had worn away the rounded cheeks till the face, lighted by large, beautiful eyes, with such a lofty-minded artist's dream and ponder, but failed to reproduce as angel forms. Tom, said Kate, when Arthur had come to an inn, I dreamed last night that St. Joseph was going to help me and brother Arthur. She carries his statue in her pocket, whispered Arthur, and prays to him often. I wish you'd pray to him, Kate, to get me out of trouble. I'm lost and I think my uncle will make it pretty hot for me. He gets mad so easily. My dream has come true like in a fairy book. Do you like fairy stories? I do. And Arthur, you look so well now, and I've got some good news too. What cried Arthur? Guess. A situation for me. Guess again. It's a letter. Who from? From a lady in Danesville. Danesville? That's where our uncle Arthur used to live. You're getting hot, Arthur. What do you think it says? Come on and tell me. While brother and sister were speaking, Tom drew a railroad timetable from his pocket and began running his eyes over it. It says that uncle Arthur is the nicest man, and oh, such a lot of things. Here, read it, Arthur, and Kate produced the leather. Why, exclaimed Arthur, glanting at the superscription, this is a letter to Sister Alexia. You didn't guess that. Yes, she wrote without saying anything to me, and-and why don't you read it? Listen, Tom, you know our story. Dear Sister Alexia, there is a Mr. Archer in Danesville, a Mr. F. W. Archer. There now. He isn't in California, exclaimed Kate, her eyes dancing. He is in comfortable circumstances and as good as he is wealthy. Everybody esteems him. He is now past middle age, has an excellent wife, but lost to two beautiful children, a boy of three and another of five, two years ago on a trip to California. His wife is a very sweet woman and very affectionate. They had intended on leaving for California to remain there, but the loss of their two children brought them back to Danesville. Their residence is 240 Lombard Street. Why, Kate, exclaimed Arthur, this is news. It's almost too good to be true. Danesville is in this state, and-and. Didn't Mama say that her brother was the best of men, broken Kate? And now we're going to see him soon. Kate, I'll tell you a secret. When Papa was dying, he told me to take you to our uncle in Los Angeles. But after the funeral we didn't have enough money, and I thought it awful hard. But now it's best we didn't go. I never told you Papa's order. Hello, I said, Tom. Here we are. Danesville is on the road between here and St. Mary's, 120 miles from Cincinnati. How many days will it take to get there? asked Kate eagerly. Days? You don't expect to go there by streetcar, do you? It won't take more than six hours, and there's a train starts at half past 11 this morning. Oh, Arthur! And Kate clasped her hands and looked anxiously at her brother. The next question pursued Tom is, How much have you two got? I fifteen cents and a quarter with a hole in it, answered Kate. And I, said her brother, have eighty-five cents. Well, I happen to be well off just now, and I really didn't know what to do with my money. Now, little girl, you just go and pack up your clothes and dolls and things like that, and if you don't hurry up about it, you'll miss the train. Tom, said Arthur, how you find your way to your uncle? Oh, there'll be no trouble about that. Once I get to the depot where I came in, I can easily find my way to the streetcar uncle took, and I know just where he got off. But Tom, where will I write to you to tell you how everything turns out? Send your letter to the Burn Red House. Afterward, I'll send you my address. In due time, preparations for departure were completed. Tom took possession of Kate's police. It was very light. Witness an affectionate parting seen between the nuns and the little girl. And before a brother and sister could fairly realize what a change had come in their prospects, he had arrangements for their tickets and seats in the parlor car, and given the colored porter directions concerning the little travelers, which rather astonished that functionary. Kate and Arthur cried on bidding their protector goodbye, and our generous friend experienced the dimness about the eyes himself, as he stood at the passenger entrance and waved his hand in farewell. Tom and Arthur were not to meet again for several years, but their friendship defied separation. Two days later, Tom received a letter from Arthur, enclosing twenty-five dollars, and giving a glowing account of the cordial reception accorded them by his uncle. With this letter came a note from Mr. Archer himself, containing such warm expressions of gratitude as made Tom blush at every line. The correspondence thus begun continued for years, until Tom and Arthur met. Well, that belongs to another story. So it was that our hero left the depot light of pocket and light of heart. He had but one dollar left of the twenty-five given him by his father. He took it out and gazed at it. Well, I've had fifty dollars worth of fun, and now I'll go and buy a dinner, and after that I'll go back to Uncle Meadow. And for the rest of my stay here, I reckon, I'll have to be poor and honest. With a sigh, Tom entered an oyster parlor, and when he came forth he had five cents left for car fare. End of Chapter 16 Recording by Maria Therese